


Slow and cautious, like you're afraid to say it wrong

by Aethelar



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-07 23:10:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21225794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelar/pseuds/Aethelar
Summary: You want to know a secret? Something Newt hides, something he spent years covering up? Something he hid so well not even his parents really know?Newt has a stutter.





	Slow and cautious, like you're afraid to say it wrong

**Author's Note:**

> If ableism is an issue, then be aware that Newt's parents treat his stutter as something undesirable to be cured.

You want to know a secret? Something Newt hides, something he spent years covering up? Something he hid so well not even his parents really know?

Newt has a stutter.

Oh, sure, they know he _had_ a stutter when he was a kid. Plenty of kids do. They also know that they hired people to deal with that and that Newt grew out of it, like plenty of kids also do.

What they don’t know is that Newt was a quiet child not because he had nothing to say but because he’d learnt to be ashamed of how he said it. What they don’t know is that Newt chooses his words carefully not because he’s thoughtful and considering but because he’s trying desperately to avoid the sounds that trip him up. What they don’t know is that Newt learnt not how to cure his stutter but how to control it, and every time he opens his mouth he does it with fierce concentration and an ingrained fear of getting it wrong.

The fear fades, over time. It’s exhausting to carry it forever. It sinks and the shame sinks to the back of his mind, somewhere almost forgotten but never gone - he’s so used, now, to taking the time to shape his sounds before he speaks them that he barely registers the effort, and perhaps you might think this counts as _fixed;_ perhaps, like his parents, you might think this is enough.

But: “These - these - these - these -” he says in excitement when his older brother comes home, too happy to care that he’s stuck on the _eus_ that never comes. It sounds like _theessie theessie theessie_ and people coo, because what a cute nickname, how sweet is that, a childhood habit that never went away.

And: “Can I can I can I can I can I pet your cat?” he asks, too delighted by the way the tabby purrs at him to concentrate on how to force his lips into the _str_ of _stroke_.

And: “What’s her name her name her name her what’s she called?” because she’s rubbing her head against his fingers and tilting until she’s directed him right behind her ear where she wants him to go, and sometimes, sometimes Newt wants to pay attention to cats and scritches instead of the way he stumbles over words when he speaks.

It eats at him. You’d think, perhaps, that it would be nerves that made him stutter, that when he was faced with a boggart turning into his worst fear he’d glance over his shoulder at Dumbledore and say that his w-w-w-worst fear was w-w-w-working in an office, but that’s not the way it goes. That’s the opposite of the way it goes.

The boggart turns into a desk and there, among teetering piles of paper and folders that crowd like cages around the straight-backed chair, are conversations and presentations and meetings and interviews; an intercom, an angry customer, an important guest to make a good impression on.

“Having to work in an office, sir,” he says, each word spoken slowly and with great care, and can you imagine what it’s like to be afraid of not being afraid anymore? To be afraid of being happy enough not to care, of being relaxed enough to stop watching yourself, of being excited enough to speak fast and forget that you can’t?

_We’re so grateful,_ his parents said to the therapist they hired. _So glad this nonsense is behind us now._ They turned to Newt with happy smiles and showers of praise, gifts and star charts and relief. Did they love him that little bit more when he could pretend he wasn’t broken?

“I hate it,” he confesses to his dragons, pressing his head against one's muscled shoulder and wrapping his arms around their neck. “It’s stupid, it’s nothing - no one cares. Why the fuck do I?”

The dragon croons, low and throaty, and curves round to whuff soothingly into his hair. It leaves it sticking up in a messy cowlick and any other time Newt would protest and smooth it down, but this time he just grits his eyes closed and presses closer until the dragon’s scales leave imprints on his forehead, and he doesn’t know if he hates that he stutters or he hates that he cares but either way, the only thing he knows is that he hates it.

“Private Scamander,” his commanding officer says after the next debriefing, gesturing him to stay behind. “A word.”

Newt slinks over to him like a dog with his tail between his legs and wonders how many times he can fail at _apologise_ before he gives in and says he’s sorry instead.

“Up there, the only thing that keeps us a team is our communication,” the man begins. “We’re only as good as we are at understanding each other, am I clear?”

Newt hunches further. “Yes, sir,” he says. _Crystal,_ he wants to say, but he doesn’t dare.

“Good. I assume you’re familiar with the seven colour variations of the flare spell?” Newt blinks, but manages a confused nod; the officer doesn’t wait for him to elaborate. “Practice them, Scamander. Do them in your sleep, do them without your wand. I expect you to have taught the other riders a working code by the end of the week - and for god’s sake, keep it simple. Basic commands only, no one needs Shakespeare on dragonback.”

Newt nods again, then straightens and sharpens his nod into a crisp salute, mind whirling. “Sir,” he says, bewildered but determined.

The officer’s gaze gentles, just a fraction. “Tell them it’s storm protocol, if you like,” he offers. “Difficult to hear each other over the wind, even with a sonorus on.”

And Newt is so damn tired of being afraid. “With all due respect, sir,” he says, slowly, careful on each sound, “Anyone who wasn’t there has heard by now. The storm protocol won’t fool any of them.”

The officer shrugs. “Tell them what you like, Private. A stutter’s nothing to be ashamed of. Screwing up a raid and nearly losing a dragon because you can’t talk to your squad - _that _can’t happen again, so get to it with the flares and don’t disappoint.”

“No sir,” Newt confirms, something unnameable fighting within him (_you aren’t a baby anymore, it’s not cute to talk like one so pay attention to what you say_) and when he plans his flares he sticks to colours that not only the riders can see but the dragons too, and of all the aerial squads in the war there’s only one that never screws up a raid and never loses a dragon and it’s the one that glows pyrotechnic in the sky and stutters happy and relaxed in the mess hall after.

“These - these - these - these -” he says in excitement when their squads meet up for the battle of Amiens.

“Hey, Newt,” Theseus says, tired and worn down by fighting and still not ready for his baby brother to be all grown up in army greens. He pulls Newt into a quick one armed hug and catalogues how thin he’s got and how his hand is still shiny and pink from a healing burn.

Newt drags him to the mess hall. “Guys,” he says, breathless and happy. “Meet my meet my meet my meet my -”

“Boyfriend!” someone hollers from the back.

“Brother?” someone else offers from the front.

“Childhood nemesis,” a third suggests from the side.

“Holy shit that’s Theseus Scamander,” a fourth breathes and the room falls into an awed hush.

“Sibling,” Newt confirms proudly in the sudden silence. Theseus squints warily at them, waiting for someone to notice and someone to comment on the odd word choice. No one does.

“Is it true,” someone finally asks, “What they’re saying about Passchendaele - that really happen?”

Theseus pauses. “Depends,” he says. He flicks a glance at Newt but all he can see is _happy_ and _relaxed_ and _among friends_ and so he cautiously lets his guard down. “What’re they saying?”

They start slow but soon they’re all talking at once, throwing out rumours that are half fantastical and half true and all painting the picture of the sort of mad Scamander captain they could see being related to their Newt. Theseus accepts a pint at some point and seats himself on a bench next to his brother and sorts through the exaggerations and what, officially, he’s allowed to reveal of the truth. All the while Newt beams by his side and when he talks he talks _fast_ with his hands moving for emphasis and his eyes shining in excitement and words going in circles until he tosses them aside for different ones but the important thing is that he talks like he’s not afraid to.

_I thought you’d lost that,_ Theseus thinks to himself. Newt the man in his army greens overlaps Newt the gap-toothed child before he learnt that stuttering was wrong and Theseus buries his smile in his drink. _I’m sorry I didn’t know how to help before, but I’m glad someone did. _He glances over the soldiers of the dragon squad and it doesn’t matter, really, how they did it. Just that they did. He toasts them in silent thanks and turns back to his grinning, stuttering, excited brother.

_I’m glad you found it again._


End file.
